


Black Rainbow

by crazyforthisloki



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Hospitals, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Gwaine/Merlin (Merlin)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-04 02:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17889599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyforthisloki/pseuds/crazyforthisloki
Summary: Arthur first saw him standing in the hospital’s smoking area. Hunched shoulders; lanky frame; messy black hair. A forlorn silhouette braving the cold December breeze all by himself. Seemed the hospital had been lacking in adicts to go outside and grab a smoke with such a weather. Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. Thank fuck. He walked towards him. I need a fag.in which there's death, hospitals, grief--and hopefully, healing and love in the end





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written a follow-up chapter yet. but, for some reason, i word-vomited all of this in half an hour. i figured what better drive to keep writing this than having it out into the outer world

 

Arthur first saw him standing in the hospital’s smoking area. Hunched shoulders; lanky frame; messy black hair. A forlorn silhouette braving the cold December breeze all by himself. Seemed the hospital had been lacking in adicts to go outside and grab a smoke with such a weather. Arthur had breathed a sigh of relief at the sight.  _ Thank fuck _ . He walked towards him. _ I need a fag _ .

The man wasn’t there to decompress with tobacco. Arms crossed, hands tucked inside his armpits, he was only staring ahead at the decorative flower pots. It had been around 10 degrees that morning and the man had been taking in the air. The clean air. Arthur did not relent easily though; perhaps the man had just finished his cigarette and could lent him one. Or he could pick up the scattered remains from the ground. Nothing wrong with sharing the vice--as long as the young man wasn’t a doctor. Arthur inspected him before standing beside him. Too messy, he decided. Or too quiet to be a doctor. 

“Have a fag?” he asked. It had taken a couple of seconds for the words to register. London traffic to be blamed, of course; the blame couldn’t go too harsh since Avalon was a good hospital, perhaps the  _ best  _ hospital. Though being stuck within the heart of central London didn’t help the ambience. 

The man blinked at him. “Sorry?”

“A fag? I could kill for a cigarette right now.”

The man smiled. The kind of smile you give to a small, helpless animal--helpless as in beyond your care. Pitifully gazing at a dying animal. “A cigarette would kill you first.”

“Is that a no? Are you a doctor about to judge me for my life choices?” His people-reading skills were shitty; his people-interacting ones were even worse. “Because you’re standing out in the cold with nothing but a frilly scarf. You might catch some pneumonia and die before the cigarette gets to me.” 

His smile got a bit more sincere. Incredulity more than pity. Better. “And a bus might hit you before I even sneeze,” he replied.

“Do you or do you not have a cancer tube for me?” Arthur groaned.

The smile snuffed away although there was no more pity. There wasn’t much of anything really. Could a man show sadness without the emotion, without the affectation of a feeling around his factions? The man had looked sad--as if his face meant to look like it without proper intention. A masquerade. “No,” he replied. “I don’t.”

Arthur huffed. The man was suicidal then, coming like that to the outside world. There might be worse views around town but he wouldn’t have pegged the amalgamation of plastic and dry flowers as a sight worthy enough to face the cold, wet December air. “What are you doing out here then?” he asked. Noisy Arthur,  _ deflecting _ Arthur. Better to focus on this anonymous man’s intentions than in Morgana back inside; what-type-of-brother-are-you Arthur. 

“I was standing peacefully and quiet until you showed up.”

“You are in London’s most expensive, top most-caring health facility. Right at the centre of everything. Stock brokers clock out and walk out to treat their strokes in less than a five minute walk. Peace and quiet don’t sound like the right words to describe this place.” As in cue, a blaring siren swiped by next to them. 

“Can a man pretend for a moment?”

“Fine,” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll pretend I’m enjoying a good ol’ cuban cigar then.”

“You’ll look ridiculous.”

“Makes two of us then.”

The man snorted. Almost pulled from deep beneath his chest; that type of spontaneous laughter you almost hate for even showing up at the party. Uninvited. That good kind of laughter. “I’ll better get inside before I catch your type of mental affliction.”

Arthur’s finger had been poised upwards; his father’s Winston Churchill portrait would have been proud of his posture. “You’re in a hospital, mate. Everyone here’s already caught something.” He blew a complex but translucid cigar loop for added dramatic effect.

The man replied, “And here I thought they were all just taking advantage of the free beds.” Then, gone back inside. Arthur tilted the invisible ash down before smashing with his foot the unseeable cigar. The jest was up; nothing was really funny without an audience. Beside, his hands were shaking and not from the imaginary nicotine rush. His sister had suffered a heart attack and he was scared shitless of it all. The doctors; the scanners; the test results; Morgana most of all. Arthur sighed and walked back inside too. The man had also been gorgeous--which didn’t really help his mood at all. 

*

Merlin had brought in  _ The Stand _ today. 1585 pages; currently in page 140.  _ He can’t die yet; we haven’t reached the ending. He has to know how it ends. _ “You brought a book about a killing flu virus? To a hospital? For a comfort read?” Cough, cough; barely concealed painful body accomodation--all the stage indications of someone being sick. It felt almost a pretend game. Give me your best sick face--and then, die from it. Perfect! You’re hired. Coughing so hard your body shifts around, that shows commitment to your role. You are dying, be in pain, go! 

God, how he hated those pillows, that mattress; people definitely did not come here for the free bedding. 

“It seemed topical,” he replied. Like in the films, people did stop laughing because of the muscular pain; laughing burned calories; it also brought painful spasms. But comedies didn’t market those side effects. “And you don’t have the flu.” Merlin didn’t mention this conversation would be pointless if they were only dealing with a case of the flu. A deadly common cold felt even reassuring by now. Pneumonia or TB, anything that could make him cough and laugh in pain yet still go back home by tomorrow.

“You could. Going outside without a jacket. Want us to match, have twin beds?”

“Don’t you want to share your sick bed with me?” he fake pouted. 

“I know how you sleep, Merlin. You require an industrial-size mattress. At least.” More coughing; the obligatory reach for the water glass. Not enough conviction at it. Where is the sentiment when you give him to drink? Don’t you love him? “Perhaps a whole bedroom made of pillows.”

“The world would be my mattress then.”

“Is this your way of confessing you’ve been sleeping around while I’m here?”

Merlin solemnly nodded. “Yes. I’ve been breaking into people’s homes to sleep in their beds while they’re gone. Call me Goldilocks.” Like the man bothering him about smoking without the illegal breaking and entering. Goldilocks, trumping around the forest looking for a cigarette to smoke, looking for the  _ right _ kind of cigarette to smoke.

“Only if you call me Papa Bear.”

“Papa Bear.”

“Goldilocks.”

Merlin smiled before picking up his bookmark. He couldn’t really rush the reading, no matter how invested he was in the plot. He had to take his time, less Gwaine were to die before the good guys won. Hopefully they win in the end; hopefully, he would give Gwaine a happy ending in one way or another. Book format would have to be; public sex wasn’t really his thing and the walls were made of glass around here. No concrete--sign of prestige. Also, Gwaine was dying; his body was killing itself, his cells being those little bitches they could be right at the worst moment. Not that there was a right moment. 95 years old seemed like the right figure; Merlin wouldn’t be alive by then; he wouldn’t have to be around for it. 

He had bought him a  _ Cancer’s a Bitch _ t-shirt at the beginning; it was all covered in puke by now. They didn’t sell  _ Chemo’s a Bitch  _ shirts anywhere though. 

_ Chemo’s a Pain in my Ass _ . 

_ Chemo might not help _ . 

_ I Got a Cancer Diagnosis and All I Got was this Lousy Chemo.  _

And all Merlin and Gwaine got was this: Stephen King’s  _ The Stand _ and the prospect of dying. The certainty of we-did-everything-we-could, we-can-only-make-him-comfortable-now kind of dying. 

Page 141, Merlin wasn’t going to rush it. 

*

The crumpled-up doctor indication flew away. Not very far away, mind you, but enough to qualify as a tantrum. “If I’d known I couldn’t drink coffee again, I would have died right there and then.”

Arthur sighed picking up the piece of paper. The good doctor had taken the time of printing her indications; probably, because explaining them face to face to Morgana was detrimental to her own blood pressure. “But you didn’t so stop bothering and suck it up.”

Looking affronted, Morgana gasped. “You can’t talk to me like that! I had a heart attack, I’m weak.” She even pouted. Pouting was always her winning card. 

“That card will only work in father and you know it.”

Morgana sighed. “I was practising.”

“What practice? You were born looking like the victim.”

“Of course I did. I was born into  _ your _ family. I’m a victim of genetics.” Replying would mean recognition. Arthur only sent a shot of the doctor’s dietary notes to Gwen’s. She would meet them tomorrow morning to take Morgana home; hopefully, not to strangle her in her sleep for working herself so hard at the age of 28 until she drove herself to a ridiculous heart attack. At 28; how positively dramatic of her. Most likely to win a personal bet against Uther; my heart vessels burst before yours, father, how inefficient you are even at that. “Now what?” Morgana asked once she realised Arthur wasn’t talking back. 

“Hope you didn’t scare away every single doctor in this very expensive place full of them.” Waiting wasn’t his strong suit; he didn’t have strong suits, only medium and soft ones really. Avoiding conversations was one of them; silence was kind, dignified even; he had been raised in a house of silence.  _ Home is where the static is _ . Morgana had been raised into the same house, except she had brought two pair of trumpets in each hand along for the ride. The orchestra woman without a conductor, murdered behind the scenes because he couldn’t follow her tempo most likely. Arthur merely cleaned the instruments once the show was over, the audience had gone home, and the echo was slowly fading. The unobserved man.  _ That _ suited him.

_ Why blabber away then? Why bother that poor innocent bystander with your silly tricks? _

_ Why? _ indeed. 

*

Page 223--the coughing had gotten worse. The wincing was back without the laughter. 

Page 224-the nurse came along; increased the morphin; checked the pillows beneath his head, as if they had by chance stopped being pillows at some point.

Page 301--that ragged breathing mentioned again, proof of an efficient researcher. Dying people were the same in both books and real life. Or perhaps the doctors had gotten it all wrong; perhaps it wasn’t cancer; it was a super deadly flu virus; perhaps he was dying of that instead.

Page 339--it was hard to change the pages of such a tome while holding a dying man’s hand. He didn’t want to drop it; he might break a toe if it landed over it. 

Page 343--they weren’t there yet, they hadn’t finished this chapter.  _ Don’t you want to know what happens next? _

Page 344--apparently, guilt-tripping a man into living for the sake of a novel wasn’t polite.

*

Morgana had sent him away:  _ Go and take a shower, Arthur; your stinky body odours are making me unpopular with the other patients, Arthur; you have bags in your eyes, Arthur; your raccoon-like face is traumatising me, Arthur _ . 

He had taken the long route around the hallway, looking for the elevator next to the nurse’s station--looking for a nest of jet-black hair, inefficient winter clothes, hunched shoulders. Everyone inside a hospital carried the absence of a genuine smile--although mostly out of tiredness and stress. Morgana had been placed in the positive recovery section of the place; people out of the woods, healthy enough to complain about the food, the TV channel selection, the view from their beds. No one looked like catching pneumonia would be a blessing in poor disguise. Arthur figured out those who thought like that had already caught something far worse. The dying kind, firmly settled in the dark, deadly woods with no sight of escaping. But that kind wouldn’t be allowed outside; doctors would be fighting to save him, fix him, wash away the stench of death. Unless-- _ the man had caught someone else’s death _ . Doctors wouldn’t be rushing to save him in that case; they would have already failed; they couldn’t fix him.

*

“You should’ve brought your favourite book instead.”

_ But then, it would be stenched with the memory of your dying. And it wouldn’t be my favourite anymore _ . “You hate Arthurian stories.”

Gwaine had shaken his head. “I just hate my character in them.”

“I love your character in them.”

“Is that why you’re here? Why you decided to marry me? Are you fulfilling some kind of long-held erotic fantasy around my name?”

_ I didn’t marry you to watch you die before me. Someone should’ve mentioned that first somewhere. A clause at the end of the marriage licence--till death do us part*  _

_ *might come sooner than expected _ .

“Well, I certainly didn’t marry you for your cooking skills.”

“You said you love my chicken fajitas!” Gwaine began coughing. The nurse was pottering about, trying not to listen, trying not to stare too hard. Would she hug him once it was over? Would she ask him to vacate the premises?

“I do love those chicken fajitas--but because you buy-- _ bought _ \--them, not make-- _ made _ \--them.”

“You’re breaking my heart here, Merlin.”

_ Only to match your liver, kidneys, and lungs then. I’d soil them with dirt only to go along with the rest of your body.  _ “Fine,” he sighed like he was the one enduring a hardship. “Your chicken fajitas will be your legacy.”

Gwaine’s grip was becoming weaker. His smile wasn’t moving anywhere but the rest of his body was fading out in the flesh. “Bury me in a chicken suit, Merlin. Make me a themed funeral. Serve only chicken nuggets.”

“Okay.” Merlin’s hand held on tighter, his finger grazing at his wrist band, feeling for his pulse, not trusting the monitor by the head side. His body was becoming liquid; he would melt and merged into the hospital bed sheets; he would have to bundle them together and stuffed that into a chicken costume. Or maybe, the liquid was in his hands because it wasn’t in his eyes. That was why the nurse stared. He wasn’t crying, he was doing the grieving-husband role all wrong; the director would have to fire him, rescind his contract, send him home. “Okay, I will.” He breathed. His lacrimal glands had gone to his hands; his palms were sweaty; Gwaine was slipping. “Only because I love you.”

A grinning dead man. Always such a flirt, Gwaine was, even in death. He was smiling when his hand slipped off entirely. “You do?” Did he whisper it or shout it at his face? It felt too deafening to be a final breath of life.

_ I do. Of course I love you. Would I be holding your hand at six in the morning, watching you die, seeing all of this, having the sight of your empty shell of a body ingrained into my head if I didn’t? _

But there was no point in replying. Gwaine’s wrist had gone silent while the room had started ringing.

  
  



	2. Two

Arthur saw him a second time the following afternoon. Translucent, for only a moment before the picture corrected itself. The edges settled down even though an ineffable sense of fogginess around him still lingered. And it wasn’t London’s miserable December weather. Nor him smoking away. He stood like a mirage deprived of heat. 

“Poor man, he’ll freeze standing like that,” Gwen mentioned. Her heart always bled out like this, in practical terms. Always ready to nurture, to fatten someone up with home-made sweets, knit an overly itching scarf. Maybe Morgana favoured her maternal qualities over any sexual attraction; them poor lot of orphans were the hugging-hungry kind after all. 

“He’ll be fine,” Morgana replied trying to push her wheelchair by herself. “No better place to get ill than a hospital’s entrance.” And so Arthur had thought the day before. That classic Pendragon type of rationalisation, all for a business-like life. Every move twice calculated, every word considered. To the second. Once the heart attack scare had passed, Arthur had had to laughed for it: too worried about her everyday motions, Morgana probably did not plan on getting her heart bursting at the seams. Too many plans inside one body; the doctor had called it inevitable.

He walked towards him anyway; pneumonia or not, he didn’t want to leave without catching a final goodbye. “Hey!” he called. No answer. Arthur had tried taking hold of his shoulder but the man jumped right before touching. “Hey! Hey! Sorry.” Hands up, non-threatening, he was only the same stranger from the day before. “It’s me.” Arthur didn’t think the man heard him at all. He turned around but stared ahead of him--through him, right at the hospital’s entrance. If he had thought the edges blurring from behind had calmed down, the man’s face was just fading away instead. Something had sucked the colour out of him in less than a single day--not that the man had had much colour to begin with. “You okay?” he asked as if the answer wasn’t obvious. But something had to give; the man didn’t even have a visible pair of lips to speak up from. 

The man swallowed, “Sorry.” He shook his head repeatedly, telling himself against whatever lines where sprouting inside his head. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

Arthur frowned. “Are you okay?” 

The man laughed, the dry kind of laughter, the sincere kind of laughter beyond actual humour. “Yeah,  _ I  _ am fine.” He didn’t reply, he  _ choked _ . The words rebelled to come but he forced them out, moving them forward; his face contorted around the machinations of a smile without actually touching his face. Gwen would have probably noticed it already, her sixth sense spiking up: that was one man in desperate need of a hug. Arthur wanted to go forward as well, consider the man’s efforts and reach out. But the man jumped away again, farther from his potential grip. “Don’t,” he said, words barely out, “please don’t.” Arthur stepped away. “It’s just--it’s just if you do it, if you do it I might fall.”

Arthur didn’t know how to proceed.  _ It’ll be okay _ .  _ Things will work out _ .  _ If you’re dying, it’ll be fine, you’re in a hospital already _ . None of which were actually true. He couldn’t find the right words even though he knew they would be sincere, no matter which. There was no perfect honesty, no true sense of abandonment towards a greater good. His ability to provide comfort depended on his personal interest. He wanted to aid this poor young man on the verge of tearing apart not because it was the good thing to do but because he didn’t know what else to do. How selfless a heart attack could one man turn. Gwen was rubbing off on him. “Will you be okay?”

The man nodded. “People keep coming and going. I’ll be fine.”  _ Yes, but will  _ you _?  _ The man nodded again.  _ No. But I can take it. _

*

Percy had wanted to hug him. His face blotched red, his nose running away, his whole being shaking. But Merlin had moved away to the nurses’ station--papers to sign, people to talk to. What if Percy toppled over, buried him under his bulking mass of grieving love, and killed him? What if he died too? What if he couldn’t bring himself to hug him back? His arms couldn’t reach him around and his heart wouldn’t be in it. Percy had always been more Gwaine’s friend than his. And only because Gwaine believed in staying friendly with his exes. Percy had wanted to hug him because he was heartbroken with the news. His chest was pouring out with red ink, people approaching to comfort him leaving Merlin aside. He was the widower but Percy took the cake.

And Merlin couldn’t bring himself to just cry. Cry away, threatening to fall down on his knees, make a scene, make people worry and care. Not like the other man. Not like that kind nurse who had been taking care of Gwaine for the last week. Not like everyone else he had called during that morning. His husband was dead and people wanted-- _ needed _ \--to know how he was. There simply was no polite way for him to say:  _ I’m fine. I’m not the one dead. _

The closest he had been to pouring his heart out had been with a complete stranger. The man of the imaginary cigarette, the blonde weirdo pushing a woman around a wheelchair. Mostly because the blonde didn’t--couldn’t--know; he had only sensed the sadness permeating in his clothes, the hospital-like scent of death. If he had known, truly known the sad- romantic-tale-of-Merlin-and-Gwaine, he wouldn’t have gone for the hug. And Merlin might not have felt the tears welling up. Because truth be told, Merlin hadn’t felt like crying for Gwaine’s sake. He had wanted to cry for himself, pitying himself like no one else was paying attention.  _ You selfish bastard _ . Everything always had to be about him. 

_ And why not? _

_ I’m the one left behind. I’m the one who didn’t die. I’m the one left to deal with all of this. _

_ Someone  _ should _ take pity on him _ .

He was a heartless bastard after all.

*

Gwen had asked three times about that poor man’s health before Morgana got tired of sharing the spotlight. She might have even given herself a second attack just to reclaim her girlfriend’s attention. “Of course he won’t be fine. He’s Arthur’s friend. He’s basically doomed,” she had replied.

“He’s not my friend.”

“He’s your friend?”

“No, I just met him outside yesterday.”

“And you didn’t tell him to put on warmer clothes.”

“Do you usually tell strangers how to dress?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Gwen had merely frowned. Morgana suddenly needed help sitting down the sofa and the matter was promptly forgotten. Better that way. Better move on. Gwen should worry about his outfit rather than the man himself. Arthur should do so as well. The man had clearly not been fine. But he had also been in a hospital; it should have clued Arthur in on his issues. They had been lucky. Most female heart attacks went undetected until too late. Morgana was and would be fine; she would start eating healthier meals, less caffeine, more exercise, less stress; she would make a full recovery. But how many other people didn’t? How many other people in that same ward would not make it through the next night? What if whoever that young man had been visiting didn’t make it till tomorrow? Had not made it already? Had that been the face of a grieving man? None of his father’s hardness; it all stood too crumbly, too  _ fresh _ , to mature into coldness.  _ The other shoe hadn’t dropped yet _ . Arthur only hoped the man had someone with him when that happened.

*

The house smelled old. A one-year old purchase already cluttered with invisible moths. Cowbells. Unexplainable noises. Too cold to crack upon a window. And the stairs suddenly seemed to steep to climb. He would have to go upstairs the next morning. Get his funeral gear in place. Gwaine’s clothes had already been shipped to the funeral parlour: a light green dress shirt, gray trousers, no shoes. Gwaine would be cold too. Allegedly. The morgue had to be freezing. But the man had hated hats and scarves with a burning passion. How pleasant, then, that he wouldn’t feel a single thing. How easily, it seemed, things revoked to the past tense.

The house didn’t really smell old-like. It simply lacked any scent. No food, no perfume, no life. They had lived there for three months since the ink had dried in the lease till Gwaine’s treatment had failed. The doctors had suggested--whispering like all of them did--to take him  _ home _ . Take him home, let him leave this world surrounded by the things he loved. Except Gwaine hadn’t worried about the decoration. The paintings had been Merlin’s idea; the curtains from his mum’s old house; the kitchen appliances carefully bought through time with every saved quarter. Gwaine hadn’t cared about their house but he had worried about where he would die.  _ Let’s stay here _ .  _ I don’t want you to look at the walls and remember me dying _ . This house had been the place where they had loved--

\--except, they hadn’t. Not really. Not quite to the fullest. They had only lived there for  _ three _ months. Gwaine had been stuck in that hospital bed for  _ seven _ . A bedridden first anniversary; a fine paper-themed present: Gwaine’s updated will. The nurses had glared at them morbidly. Merlin had laughed promising to treasure Gwaine’s knick knacks, whatever they were. They had kissed before the nausea kicked in. Not much kissing in the oncology ward though. Not much sense of romanticism while you puke your guts out, your hair fell off, and your body started to decay. Merlin kissed Gwaine everyday, one good morning, one good night. To remind themselves: to remind Gwaine he was still wanted--loved. And to remind himself he was a happily married man to a gorgeous specimen who could have--had--anyone he--had--wanted to. 

And--had-chose-n-him. 

Merlin slept in the sofa that first night. And the next one. And the next. And the one after that. He couldn’t dare go and see whether the bedsheets still smelled like Gwaine or not. 

*

Arthur didn’t know what to think when he spotted the man drinking coffee two days later. His brain had had to work extra for it. The image of his figure outside the dreary hospital background didn’t properly compute. The man had clearly not been sleeping properly. But people didn’t turn around and point at him neither; the eyepatches circling his blue eyes almost suited him; fulfilling the sense of an aesthetic quota of the weary and tired youth. He looked terrible--and frustratingly appealing as well. 

What could he do next? The man made eye contact first. Arthur had been staring while waiting for his take-away. His otherworldliness had made him feel safe enough to gaze. Except he wasn’t at the margin of reality anymore; no more translucent lightness filtering in through his shape. The man was fully there and once the edges had settled, he looked like any ordinary person. Of extraordinary face. Of mesmerising aura. Come from a dark land. Arthur didn’t know whether to run away or stride forward when their eyes met. Him waving at his direction settled it. 

His steps moved gingerly around the man’s table. No sudden movements, no loud noises, no hard feelings. He was drinking green tea, Morgana’s new favourite hot beverage. To soothe the nerves, appease the heart. “Hi,” Arthur said.

“Hello.”

_ How are you? Are you the one dying? Is someone dying? Has someone died already? Or is it everything better again? _

“How’s your girlfriend?”

Arthur blinked. “Who?”

“The woman in the wheelchair. From--he cleared his throat--from before.”

The interest had been too genuine for him to laugh or joke about it. Him and Morgana--they were not Roman royalty after all. “She was my sister, actually. And she’s fine now. Or not really. She’s threatening bodily harm if I don’t get here some caffeine soon.” Like Arthur imagined, the man was too polite to ask about that. “She had a heart attack,” Arthur explained nonetheless. 

“Is she okay now?”

“Only if she doesn’t burn down her flat while she stays alone bedridden.” The man didn’t properly laughed. Or smiled. But he didn’t flinch. Neither when Arthur gestured to sit down. Baby steps--baby steps towards what, he couldn’t say. “And how are you?” 

The man hunched his shoulders. “Alright, I guess. I’m out of the hospital at least. Spent last seven months inside and just went home yesterday to sleep. I slept like twenty hours!” According to him, he had told the greatest joke in the world. Twenty hours of sleep! Amazing! A whole day wasted away in bed. He sounded too proud of himself for Arthur to comment. Nor that he seemed to care about Arthur’s reaction. “And then I woke up and realised I had nothing left to eat. Nothing that wouldn’t poison me, really. I came here in the end because I remembered the cheesecake was to die for. Wasn’t wrong. I’ve had three slices so far.”

“Probably why you sound high on sugar.”

“And caffeine,” he added. “This is my third cup.” The light-brown crust around the cup’s rim spoke enough; the shaking hands and twitching upper lip probably said too much. “I should probably stop but I don’t feel too sleepy. Don’t want to go to sleep really. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Arthur replied. He didn’t think he could face a second heart attack in his vicinity. But, if the man’s heart caved in, he would help him. Might be too high on chemicals to notice himself being alive again. Or perhaps, the chemicals had been his goal: to bring himself back from the land of the sleeping dead. 

The man leaned forward. “How do I look to you?”  _ Tired. Sad. Hectic. Alive. Too much of everything. Sad.  _ “Do I look single to you?”  _ In pain. In conflict. Scared _ . “Because I spent almost a year married inside a hospital so I don’t think many people got to see me looking like a married man. And now I’m not--married, I’m not anymore. But I’m not even single out in the world either. I’m not--the man looked down--I’m not really out in the world again.”

Arthur had been right. The stench of death had been there; it would probably never leave him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Which part?”

“People usually don’t ask that,” Arthur frowned. 

He shrugged again. “Maybe they should.” 

Work, he suddenly remembered. He had work. No more days off, not while Morgana still lived. But he couldn’t just walk away. You don’t leave a grieving man all by himself, even when they don’t look too afraid of being alone. His watch weighed heavily on his wrist, heavy enough to pull his eyes down. “If you have to go, go. I’ll be fine.” Arthur nodded. He should have walked away. How could he comfort someone not looking to be comforted? Yet, again, probably no one went around searching for those hugs.  _ Kind regards, I’m sorry for your loss, farewell _ . “Hey!” the man called. His feet had moved faster than he had wished for, instincts kicking in, self-preservation acting up. “I don’t know your name.”

He swallowed, “Arthur.”

“Merlin.”

His lips moved first, his brain second, his own gut-feeling tripping itself down. “Merlin,” he nodded, “I’ll see you around.”

Merlin smiled. “Okay.” Close enough to a genuine one. He didn’t want to take that as a personal victory. But it did. Towards what goal, who could say.

*

No reason to talk about the funeral. Funerals and memorials were for the living. The departed’s wishes meant nothing, whether they wanted sunflowers or be cremated or everyone wearing pink instead of black. People dressed all pretty to whisper sweet nothings to a dead body. 

Merlin didn’t go to Gwaine’s funeral. He planned it--had planned it alongside Gwaine a month ago. All had been left a call away from coming together. Merlin had even gone and prepared his outfit: his best black suit, his  _ only _ black suit, his wedding suit. Why bother though? He had already said his goodbyes; had already seen the body lying lifelessly; seen it before, seen it better, without Gwaine’s friends and family around. Not that they would pity him for it. They didn’t  _ like _ him to begin with. It wasn’t his party to go to. The reception would be at his sister’s (sister-in-law’s) although he had no idea who had been invited. Gwaine’s friends, Gwaine’s family. Merlin had only been there for the free ride.

Instead of going to his late-husband funeral, Merlin had dressed in his usual clothes and gone for a cup of coffee. He had seen the same blonde from the hospital and the sugar in his veins had made him laugh. Did he enjoy himself? Not really, not in his heart. But people didn’t enjoy themselves at funerals either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really how many chapters this will take but still, kudos/comments are love/encouragement


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Life became hard to explain. If he had close friends, it would have been harder. Or easier. They would all have known already, saving Merlin from having to fabricate a speech out of his love life. Life. He assumed after the wedding Gwaine became part of his overall life. Until he didn’t. And now he had to update random strangers about it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no excuses except stating that life got in the way. can't make promises about when the next (and final) one will come but it will come eventually

Life became hard to explain. If he had close friends, it would have been harder. Or easier. They would all have known already, saving Merlin from having to fabricate a speech out of his love life. Life. He assumed after the wedding Gwaine became part of his overall life. Until he didn’t. And now he had to update random strangers about it.

“I haven’t seen Gwaine in such a while, love, how is he?” his neighbour asked him the first week. A sweet old lady; frail and sweet; stinking all the street with her baked goods.  _ Better. He’s not sick anymore _ \--the reflex was unbearable. 

“He didn’t make it,” Merlin had said. It was his line. Either stepping inside or going outside, he never stayed for the response. Tears, for sure; arms reaching out for him, to hug him, console him. And yet, every single time, it seemed Merlin did most of the comforting.  _ You’ll get over it _ .  _ You’ll be fine _ . 

Not many people had said that to him. He was almost glad for it. Glad that Gwaine’s friends had been only his; that they had accepted his presence reluctantly; that they hadn’t included him into the inner jokes. That he didn’t have to go down the pub and reminisce about what a great man his late husband was. Most of them called him toy-boy anyway behind his back. Some even to his face. His social life had been Ealdor--as a concept of the small town community, not an example of its realisation--and Gwaine. In that order. And with the same sense of finality, one completed before moving onto the next one. Except there wasn’t a next one in sight. His social circle amounted to himself and his empty house. The house he wouldn’t afford for much longer. A three-tiered terrace house in a nice part of town, all left for an unemployed twenty-five year old. 

A twenty-five year old Phd student actually. Except he had only gone to a single month worth of lectures before requesting an extension. A delay. Undetermined.  _ Until my husband gets better _ . It hadn’t even been enough time for his lecturers to recognise his face amongst the crowd. For his input and insight to be missed. For him to have left a mark. He didn't worry at first. Gwaine was going to get better and then, he’d be back. Behind. But back. Fulfilling his dream--having people call him doctor Emrys. Except Gwaine didn’t get better and he didn’t return. 

Going back to class would just mean finding more people wanting answers. And more dead-end replies.  _ Yes, my husband died _ \-- _ and I feel he took me with him. _

*

He went for coffee every morning. Merlin was never there. All the explanations for his absence felt ineffective. He looked too young to work; he was too broken to work; he moved away; he became a hermit; he died too. Maybe too morbid; Arthur didn’t remember being as such before. Although without having won any positivity prices during his youth, the idea of death hadn’t been really present. It preceded his own first breath. His mother’s passing had been a fixture of a past world where Arthur didn’t live properly yet. The gap never really left his side but it became the emptiness of a concept.  _ Mother _ . Not  _ mum _ or  _ mummy _ but  _ a mother _ . And with every passing year, he seemed to miss her less and less. He seemed to miss more and more a complete stranger.

Or not quite such a stranger.

Name, Merlin. Situation, widower. Habit, drinking coffee--sometimes. Maybe tea.

It was only natural. Decent even. Merlin was going through a horrible moment in his life and Arthur was allowed to care. To worry. Even though he barely did--with some exceptions to the side. Morgana, Gwen, his father despites his best wishes, Leon. Only natural for Arthur to gravitate towards a fifth person. Now, he could count the people he worried about with a single hand. Merlin had only been a casualty of his need for order and neatness. 

But his place at the coffeeshop remained empty.

*

Merlin saw him buying actual food. Real vegetables; fresh bread; candies. Adult food. He had seen it in films before, people bringing casseroles and cakes to the mourner’s home. Not around Merlin’s house. Perhaps misses Porter had tried to offered him biscuits when she had came knocking around the first day. Of course he hadn’t opened but he liked to imagine he had turned down an amazing veggie haggis. He had held unto the cupboard as long as he could though. Whatever he had bothered buying before their last hospital run--mostly tea and some stale biscuits. Not that he’d been really hungry. Or that he needed the energy. He had still been showering and changing clothes every couple of days. How embarrassing it would be for the neighbours to call in for the bad smells emanating through the walls. Merlin didn’t need anyone causing a scene or making a big fuss. Thus, a run for groceries.

He wasn’t expecting to run into Arthur that day. Sometimes, his mind had drifted off towards him. Towards his sister wondering--hoping--she was doing fine, wishing her a full recovery. All that positive hospital babble relatives became proficient in. Most of the time he thought of Arthur, Merlin felt like laughing. Seeing his concern that time at the coffee-shop. For a complete stranger. It had been endearing. Ridiculous. But endearing. Arthur hadn’t struck him like the empathetic guy, or so Merlin assumed. Despite his best wishes, their first two encounters had been covered within a dark, sickening fog. He knew they had spoken at the hospital, that his face rang a bell, but he didn’t want to focus on the words once spoken. 

“This is unnecessary,” the woman had said. “I’m a grown woman, I can do my own food shopping.”

Arthur had groaned. He hadn’t struck him as the groaning kind either. Maybe Merlin hadn’t been paying enough attention. “Then why did you leave the doctor’s list on top of the counter?”   

“Maybe I’ve already memorised it.”

“Okay, what’s the fourth item on it?” he had asked, crossing his arms, assuming position. Merlin didn’t have any siblings but he could tell the bickering came with the deal. The effortless banter. The constant irritation. Quite like a marriage--or so he assumed. His experience wasn’t extensive enough for that subject.

The woman had crossed her arms too. “Something insipid.”

“Whole-wheat cereal.”

“My point exactly.”

“Morgana,” Arthur had replied, his arms dropping, his shoulders dropping, his composure falling down. He looked even more tired than Merlin.  _ What’s his excuse? _ “You know this is for your sake.”

“We’re all going to die anyway and if I die with a belly full with processed sugar, I will die a happy woman.”

“You promised Gwen.” And like a magic word, the woman--Morgana--fell down too. Bickering until finding that soft spot that pulled your strings off. It almost made sense to build sibling-relationships around weaknesses; who else would you forgive quickly enough for dinner after using that magic word? 

Merlin hadn’t meant to pry on their private moment. He had been just wondering around the aisles, seeing what products might tempt him into an effort. Besides of more tea and biscuits. Maybe some eggs, crispy apples, a rotisserie chicken--anything. “Merlin?” His mind had been tossing around with that chicken when Arthur stood in front of him, the blandest brand of cereal in hand. Morgana had had every right to rebel. “Hi, how you’ve been?”

_ Never better _ . “Fine.”  _ Still a widower. _ “You?” 

In his defense, Arthur had noticed the senselessness of his question almost immediately. Good manners. A good upbringing. It showed. “Fine, fine,” he had nodded, cereal still tightly clutched. Merlin had felt the unnerving need of punching it away; if Morgana wanted something with sugar, she should get something with sugar. People worried about healthy eating all their lives and still dropped dead in the blink of an eye. Sugar wasn’t the enemy. “I haven’t seen you around the coffee shop.”

Merlin had blinked. “Oh, yes,” he had nodded. “I’ve been--I’ve been really busy, you know, dealing with--dealing with everything.”  _ Staying inside, drinking tea, staring at the walls, the usual. _ “I’m not much of a habitual customer, actually.” He had smiled at his own personal joke, “I prefer tea.” Like he had others to keep inner jokes with anyway.

“Right, right.” With all the nodding and strange pauses, the hand holding onto that box for dear life, the shop’s music ringing louder than their breathing, Merlin knew.  _ I’ve made him uncomfortable _ .  _ I’ve reminded him of something best forgotten _ . 

He had been about to leave, cereal wasn’t even his chosen breakfast meal anyway, when a hand had protruded outside. “I’m Morgana, by the way. Do forgive my brother, he was raised by wolves outside our home.”

He smiled. Weaknesses or not, he did like the bickering. “Merlin.” He even shook her hand. All very professional. Very polite.

“I’ve seen you before, outside Avalon, the day I’d been finally released from my imprisonment. Hope everything’s okay now?” 

Merlin had turned to Arthur. Not as polite, perhaps. Obviously, not very subtle.  _ You didn’t tell her _ . Had it been the other way around, Merlin would have sprinted to let someone else know. Perhaps Gwaine.  _ He doesn’t look a day passed 20 and he’s already a widower. How odd. How sad, isn’t it? _ See? Not very polite. She didn’t even know about Gwaine’s “pre-condition.” Explaining the hospital was one thing, explaining the cancer was another one. The cancer made sense of everything. Without it, Merlin’s life didn’t seem so tragic at all. He was practically normal to her eyes. “Yeah, all better now.” He had even pasted a small smile. To add to that flair of being out-of-the-woods. “My husband--my husband had been sick but he’s better now.” How liberating to actually say that phrase without worrying about the other person’s feelings. Without caring about being appropriate or morbid.  _ All better now, no one can suffer when dead _ . He didn’t look at Arthur’s before leaving--he had things to buy and it was getting late--in case he wanted to punch him for lying to his sister’s face. Not Merlin’s fault, really. He should have told his sister about it, gossipped it around like a normal human being. Let Arthur do the explaining for his sake; let someone else carry the burden of saying “dead husband” in a regular sentence. 

It wasn’t as if he was planning on seeing them two ever again.

*

“Well, then he’s heading for a breakdown.” Morgana’s way. Straight to the point, not worrying for the sugar-coating. Except in her cereal.  _ Tell like it is, sis _ . Arthur had been too gobsmacked to think about her usual ways. His sense of compliance at seeing Merlin smile had only been trumped by the sight of seeing Merlin smile.  _ He’s better now _ . Well, no shit. Of course, it must have become an awkward conversation pretty soon. Updating someone’s living status. Which wasn’t an excuse to ignore it. To pretend it never happened. Arthur had told Morgana because Merlin had taken the easy way out, leaving the ball bouncing on his court, not bothering to wait and see his reply. “Actually, his husband’s dead. He died last week.”

“Well, then he’s heading for a breakdown.”

_ Well, then why bother about at all? Uh, Arthur? _ Mostly, because Merlin had been smiling. Buying groceries. Being an active member of this society. He had even shaved--if Arthur’s nosy nose remembered correctly.  _ Why bother? He seems to be doing fine _ . Because Morgana told things straight--the same things Arthur thought about as well. Maybe too insync for a pair of contending siblings; or maybe the connection explained more than it should. 

_ Fine, he’s in deep denial and heading towards a mental breakdown. Why bother? _ Not really out of kindness. Arthur had been raised to be polite  _ not _ kind. Kindness never took you far away. For success to happen, personal interests must be involved. Investments only paid off if your gut feeling screamed and kicked as main argument. It all looked really pretty when put down as such. Without making any sense. He wasn’t writing an inspirational, business-driven ethical manual. He was rationalising his own personal feelings, once non-existing. For a stranger--who apparently shopped and drank coffee in the same area as him. And how was that a thing? Merlin looked destitute most of the time, more out of a forced fashion sense than personal circumstances. Even Morgana needed Gwen’s paychecks to afford her fancy flat. 

Arthur held onto that question. He treasured it as Morgana bought her bland, tasteless cereal. He played around with it while going back home. Gwen had cooked and Morgana had updated her on the saga of the poor-helpless-young-man-from-the-hospital. “His name’s Merlin,” she had casually mentioned. Arthur didn’t let that question go because it made everything easier. Much easier. He only dressed-up his convoluted feelings into a sense of curiosity and let matters rest. 

He was curious. He didn’t like it more than the other alternatives. But at least that one was within character.

*

Merlin decided to stop by the coffee shop again. He hadn’t been lying before. He did like tea better than anything else. Better than the actual smell of caffeine. But they also had tasty breakfast pastries. Not that he had somewhere to be early for. He could--but he hadn’t made that call yet. Exercise was good too. A twenty-minute walk going there, another going back. Twenty-five if he took his time. By the second morning, the sights were all the same. A shortcut there, a shortcut more. All the houses somehow looked the same anywhere you turned. 

“You’re back,” Arthur had mentioned the first day. Smiling seemed better than pointing out the obvious. Arthur didn’t look like the tongue-tied kind, tripping over simple conversations. Merlin used to trip on thin air; he hadn’t really held a simple, non-medical conversation with anyone in a while; maybe all that indoors’ hospital air had cured him of his social awkwardness. “How’s your sister?” he would ask, polite like Arthur. His sister was always better--cranky but better--and Arthur was always running late. Merlin wondered what was Arthur doing buying coffee every morning if he didn’t have the time for it. But asking wouldn’t have been polite.

Arthur sat by his table the third morning. Asked him what he was reading.  _ Was it truly blushing what his cheeks felt? _ He didn’t think he had the youth left in him to blush again. “My Life,” he replied, showing the cover. Very nondescript, very correct; could it be socio-political discussions or hardcore erotica, who was to say? “Just poetry.” Arthur asked him to read some out loud. Blushing like a newlywed bride. How pathetic was that. “ _ If it were writing we would have to explain. I say that as much to comfort myself as to state something I think to be true. Dashing up out of the dark basement, pursued by the humid fear _ .” Arthur asked him what it was about but he couldn’t say. He could only say he liked it. Arthur agreed.

“Aren’t you always running late for work?” By the third time Arthur sat in front, interrupting Merlin’s reading, Merlin had to ask. Nobody could be polite  _ all the time _ . Arthur laughed. He didn’t need to be at work  _ that _ early, really; he just liked being the first at the office. “Did you stop liking being the first now?” Arthur explained: he didn’t want to match his sister’s heart attack records; his sister had yelled at him about it; it all made sense. Just like that. “Just like that you realised your habits were being detrimental to your health?” Arthur nodded.  _ Okay _ .

Merlin kept asking about Arthur’s sister. She kept being fine. Melin kept on asking anyway. By the second week since returning to the coffee shop, he had run into all the people who might have asked him about Gwaine. He wasn’t seeing anyone who might check in on him. Besides Arthur. Or maybe Arthur. If he was checking him in, he was never obvious. He made Merlin talk--about anything and everything really.  _ What are you reading now? _ “The Dream of a Common Language.”  _ Are you always reading poetry?  _ “No.”  _ What’s your favourite book? What’s your favourite film? What’s your favourite tea blend? Why don’t you like coffee? Why? What? Who? _

After three weeks of the same questions, Arthur asked him out to dine with his friends. Merlin accepted.

*

Gwen had been staring at him since they opened the wine bottle. Since Morgana opened the wine bottle. Morgana wasn’t allowed to drink the wine; she smelled it like a connoisseur; she looked like a drunkard. Gwen didn’t stare at him because of that comment. Arthur had invited Merlin over. It had become a  _ thing _ . Morgana had told Gwen already. Gwen hadn’t told anyone else; Morgana did. Leon knew. Leon’s girlfriend Mithian knew too. Morgana’s half-estranged sister, Morgause, knew. And she lived in Scotland. People knew. Gwen was staring. “Won’t he be uncomfortable?”

_ Probably if you keep staring at me.  _ “Why would he be uncomfortable?”

“Maybe because he doesn’t know anyone.” Gwen had chosen a pork roast for the night. He should’ve asked Merlin if he ate meat or not. Skinny as he was, eating only their salads wouldn’t help. His mind rebelled. He wanted to focus on Merlin’s dietary habits. Except Gwen kept staring. And worrying.

“Not true,” Arthur replied. _ How fast can one make a hummus? Or would there be allergies involved?  _ “He’s met Morgana already. And he didn’t run for the hills afterwards. That should mean something.”

Gwen frowned. The pork roast was almost ready; the smell entirely pervasive; maybe Merlin was jewish;  _ that _ would make things uncomfortable. “Running into Morgana at the groceries isn't the same as meeting all of us for dinner.”

“What’s really the problem here?” Arthur’s hands were slightly over the air. At least, he hadn’t put them over his hips. Taking the Morgana-Pendragon-pose for demanding an explanation. Which he was. But his mind was thinking about hummus.  _ Deflecting _ . Things were bound to be awkward and it would be all his fault. Hummus was safer. He could always blame the stove if things went awry with his cooking. “It’s not like we’ve never had complete strangers over before.” He even looked over the whole half-dining-half-living room. The full-on Morgana-Pendragon glance--minus the raised eyebrow. Even he couldn’t pull off  _ everything _ with dignity. “With that mentality, Mithian would’ve never joined our group.”

“Yes, but Arthur--Leon cleared his throat. Never a good sign. Leon speaking his mind was never a good sign. For him at least--I was  _ dating _ Mithian. And Mithian wasn’t going through such a life-changing experience either.”

“So Merlin should be isolated by everyone because--he breathed--because he lost his husband?”

The timer set off. Gwen didn’t barge into the kitchen; Morgana was taking care of it. At least they knew which of the two was better apt to handle a sensitive discussion. Also, Morgana was very protective of her cooking. “Arthur, of course not!” she reproached. “We’re just wondering if it’s the best option for him to spend time with us, a group of strangers minus you and Morgana, and not his closest friends?”

_ Because I fear those don’t exist. And I don’t know how to approach that subject _ . “Nothing wrong with making new friends, right?” Now, he was getting defensive. 

The perfect moment, really, for Morgana to make her appearance. The pork roast safely protected, she still sported her  _ kiss the witch!  _ apron and her hands  _ were _ over her hips. It worked on her. “Arthur, is it your intention to date Merlin?” Silence in an already quiet space. That annoying emptying sound. A pin could be heard dropping. But a quick look around the place told Arthur enough: Morgana was only the vocaliser. This was the common fear--even though there wasn’t anything truly scary about it.  _ Was it? _ “Do you wish or not to eventually start a relationship with him?”

Humility. Timidity. Shyness. Uncertainty. He really didn’t know the answer. There were guesses, passing random thoughts while going to work, flashing pictures without actual consistency. His mouth had opened up for who knew what when it came-- _ saved by the bell _ . Or ruined by Merlin. “We’re not done discussing this,” Morgana mouthed. Gwen, the perfect hostess, went to open. It only took him two seconds before going himself--either eager to welcome Merlin or escape from his sister.

*

Dinner had been  _ strange _ . Merlin wasn’t holding his breath on hearing from Arthur again. Against his best wishes, that prospect mattered. Arthur kept him busy after all. Kept him sharp. Made him another active member of society. Without Arthur’s inane questions, Merlin would have no one to talk to during his day. But things had been awkward. Tense. Obviously, Arthur’s friends all knew. They had to. Otherwise, they would have asked him about his love life. He wasn’t that slow on the get go; he knew how things looked; like he was  _ dating _ Arthur. Although Merlin did realise afterwards how the evening itself had looked: two couples plus him and Arthur. Triple date alert. A big, big alert.

He didn’t want to date Arthur. The possibility was appalling. A-moral, really. Gwaine didn’t even have grass fully grown over him. Yet, not seeing Arthur again bothered him. The only suitable explanation: Merlin, the duckling. He had latched onto Arthur, the first friendly face he had seen after a traumatic event. Knowingly with a single psych course during his undergrad, the diagnosis sounded genuine. And he had to settle with that now knowing things had been awkward. 

Yet, he almost felt like throwing a tantrum.  _ Almost _ . Moving his legs and arms up and down; throw himself to the floor; scream and pull his hair. All the works. Metaphorically speaking. His muscles didn’t really feel battle-ready for that kind of activity. The feeling remained. Only because things got uncomfortable, didn’t mean they had to end. Many uncomfortable things went on for quite a while: the fiscal debt, his five-year bowl haircut, his prince William’s obsession. Why give it up? Tragic as his life had become, Merlin couldn’t deny having Arthur as his only friend. He couldn’t really afford it either. And no matter how strange things had gone down, Arthur was easier. Simpler--in the best kind of way. No inside jokes, no fond memories, no need for reminiscence. Tabula Rasa. He had geared himself up to fight for the sake of Arthur’s company when Arthur simply showed up. Came next Monday, Merlin book in hand, ready to read uninterruptedly, Arthur was buying his coffee. Waving hello. Coming over. Asking about his book-- _ What happened with the poetry? I do enjoy novels too _ \--asking about his plans. Talking about work. His work. Dinner was avoided--although Arthur did inquiry about his favourite meals.  _ Merlin, jaffa cakes a good meal do not make _ . They had laughed. Effortlessly. Things had been nice. Really nice. Nice days had followed. Arthur inviting him over for dinner--a new Thai restaurant--and movies--big Marvel fan apparently--and once their houses had discovered their proximity, they had watched films and TV on the weekends. Always at Arthur’s of course; his screen was much bigger. Nice and relaxing days, soothing enough Merlin sometimes didn’t think of Gwaine at all. Only sometimes. The other times, he was usually with Arthur and had to focus on that. 

But then Merlin had gone home to a letter one day. And for the first time in a while, had felt like crying. Not out of sadness; certainly not joy; not even emptiness. Anger more like. Yes, true anger.

*

Arthur had a problem. A very predictable one, apparently. But a problem still. He was never hearing the end of it, he just knew it.  _ Bottle it up then _ .  _ Bury it so deep you can pretend it’s not happening _ . Denial--a classic. How could he have been this stupid? All the signs had been there, flaring and bright red. Loud noises included. And yet, he had gone and fallen. Fallen for his own traps. Which meant he had no one to blame but himself. Self-deprecation--another classic.  

Of course, it would be easier to blame Merlin. What an absolute cliché: none of this would have happened without you. If I hadn’t met you. I wish I never met you. All the rehatched phrases. Too well-worn by time to hold any real meaning anymore. Mostly because they were lies. Hence, Arthur’s problem. 

Morgana needed one lunch date to figure it out. Damned her sixth sense. The healthier she got, the witchier she became. “Oh god, you like him, don’t you?”

Denying only meant delaying the inevitable. “I like hanging out with him.” Nothing wrong with a short delay.

“Cut the crap. You’ve got heart eyes, I can’t see them from outside.” 

Arthur sighed. A  _ very _ short delay then. “Maybe.” Hadn’t been really a lie, he  _ did _ like spending time with Merlin. Drinking coffee with Merlin; fancy wine and dining with Merlin; movies and take-out with Merlin. However obscured his feelings had begun, the cloud had lifted by now. Hanging out wasn’t the appeal; Merlin had become the glaring common denominator behind Arthur’s enjoyment as of late. “It doesn’t really matter anyway.”

The perfectly poised eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Because I’m not doing anything about it.” He wouldn’t; he couldn’t. Which was half-percent of his actual problem. Not being able to act on the other half. 

Morgana sighed. To her credit, she did look genuinely contrite about it. Considerately less gloating than expected. Heart attacks did change people’s takes on life apparently. “You need to walk away.”

_No, I don’t_. _Yes, you’re right_. _But why?_ _It’s what’s right_. _But I don’t want to!_ “I think I can control myself, Morgana.”

“Can you?” The buzzing of the area didn’t drown away her voice, the truth in her point. “Because if you could, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“But--the table cloth felt particularly interesting--but I can’t just leave him on his own. I wasn’t sure before but I really know it now, Morgs. He’s by himself.”

More sighing. Terrible humane of her. “My point exactly. He’s vulnerable. You’re his main support system. And you developing feelings,  _ romantic _ feelings, for him is not what he needs right now.”  _ You meant well when you set out to help him but in the end you failed _ . “You need to give him room to grieve. Properly grieve.” She even grabbed his hand. How fitting considering the last time they had bonded like so: her in bed right after getting her diagnosis. Another attack to the heart.  _ God, that was cheesy. Truthful. But cheesy _ . “If you can’t be what he needs right now, let him go.”

_ If I hadn’t met you--I wish I never met you _ . All terrible, filthy lies.

*

He knew he would regret it. Giving Arthur his address. In case of an emergency or something like that. Arthur was an accountant for fucks sake; how big would an emergency had to be for him to rescue Merlin? Maybe if he got attacked by massive calculators.  _ Ha ha Merlin. You’re a real comedian right there _ . All the screaming and tearing apart had given him a headache. And he hadn’t properly eaten anything since--since two mornings ago. Coffee with Arthur, pastries on the side. And now Arthur was ringing his doorbell. He had been calling on the phone, too. Probably. Merlin had kicked it off the night before. And his cell was probably already dead since he hadn’t touched it after calling the lawyer. Not really  _ his  _ lawyer; he wasn’t really paying off his fees after all. No, Gwaine had taken care of that before as well.  _ I’ll treat you well, Merlin _ .  _ I’ll make sure you miss nothing _ . What a fucking piss-poor liar he had ended up marrying.

Arthur was making a scandal now. The house stood so quiet anything but his breathing meant a roaring call. The police might be called in; this was a nice neighbourhood after all; people didn’t make scenes around here. Of all the things he needed to come to terms with, the status quo of his street hadn’t been one of them. Except now it was--not that anybody asked him to. 

“Hello to you too, Arthur.” Head throbbing, two-day unwashed face, home a mess. What a charming picture he made right there. “Do come in. Can I offer you a cuppa?” If he didn’t feel bone tired as he did, Arthur’s worried look would have been endearing. Almost charming. Arthur declined his offer for tea, possibly the rudest Arthur had been around him. How refreshing. “What can I do for you, Arthur?”

He stared at him like Merlin was talking crazy. The pillows scattered around him were not helping. “Are you alright?” Merlin was really starting to hate that question. The pillows answered it by themselves. “I’ve been calling,” he muttered. “I was worried.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Couldn’t find my phone actually.” Arthur eyed his living room suspiciously. “I was looking for it here.”

Probably compensating for refusing his tea, Arthur had started to pick up the pillows near him. Or maybe he was just a neat-freak. Merlin’s complete opposite. The only reason the house had remained untouched for so long came more from lack of use than Merlin’s self-control. “Merlin, tell me what happened? Did someone break in? Are you alright?” 

His tongue rebelled hard against his best wishes. Arthur was his Gwaine-free-zone. How could he give up on their unpolluted friendship right now? When he needed it the most? Yet, who else could he tell this? Friends were meant to comfort you in times of trouble after all.  _ Embrace the defeat of your own logic.  _ He didn’t want to but he had to. Merlin sat down and breathed in deeply--rip off the band-aid. “I got a letter two days ago. From Gwaine’s lawyer.” He kept his hands busy fluffing pillows. Arthur put them away and held his hand instead; he wasn’t sure if it felt better or worse but didn’t move them aside either. “About his will. His  _ actual _ will.”

Arthur frowned. “I don’t follow.”

It wasn’t really funny but he laughed anyway. “When Gwaine got really sick, three months ago or so, he said we should work on his will. See all the knick-knacks I might get if he died.” He chuckled again. “ _ When _ he died. We didn’t really say it out loud but it was still there, you know? It was all a matter of time by then. The crude inevitability of everything. But I wasn’t going to say no to it. You can’t really deny much to cancer patients after a while. So we put together this stupid Word document one evening, laughing around, actually laughing for the first time in--I don’t even know in how long. I didn’t know anything about wills or legalese but it seemed very formal: I, Gwaine Greene, leave Merlin Emrys my old VHS collection of Disney films under the condition he should never get an actual VHS player to watch them.” Arthur snorted. The sound granted Merlin permission to start laughing himself. Now with true sense of ridiculousness. “Right? I wasn’t really expecting to get much in the end. The house had a six-month lease, no fancy cars, no priceless collections or anything. I thought the will was more a theatrical of his than anything real.” He looked around the room; the letter was still somewhere in there; hidden beneath the rug or tucked inside a crevice; he didn’t remember quite what he had done with it but it was still there. “Gwaine said he’d call his lawyer the next day, had the thing made all official. I didn’t worry about it again. I wasn’t expecting his family to show up and make a scene about his old VHS tapes after all. Gwaine never spoke about them but I knew they hadn’t been in touch for a very long time. I just  _ assumed _ everything of Gwaine here was already mine. Then I got the letter.”

Arthur’s hand gripped harder. “What did it say? Are you in trouble? Need money? I can lend you if you want to.” He couldn’t help himself. The laughter practically erupted from deep within him. An explosion of self-deprecating giggles. The worst kind of sound he wanted to hear right then. “What?” To Arthur’s credit, he didn’t sound offended. In his defense, Merlin wasn’t making the most well-adjusted picture either. “What is it?”

Merlin had to hold his chest in. But, oh, it was all so funny now. “You know what were Gwaine’s first words to me? He said,  _ Hi, I’m Gwaine and I can turn your night around _ . It was awful! I don’t even know why I let him buy me a drink after that. But it was charming somehow. I couldn’t help myself. He even said the same thing when he asked me to marry him. He probably knew I wasn’t going to say no to it.” It felt good, to say Gwaine’s name out loud. He should’ve done it before. How dare he to bury his husband’s name deep down in his own words? “But now I can’t think about that memory without getting so angry at him. I mean, if I saw him right now, I might punch him in the face! Scream or something, I don’t know!” 

He was getting himself worked-up. Felt like tearing his hair, scream himself hoarse again. “Merlin--” If Arthur hadn’t touched him, pulling him back down to the sofa, he wouldn’t have noticed himself standing. 

“The bastard lied!” Arthur’s eyes covered half his frown. But it wasn’t really funny; he didn’t think anything would be funny again. His eyes, much to his shame, began to sting.  _ Oh great, now he was going to cry _ .  _ Now, in front of Arthur _ .  _ Of course _ . “He lied! Or--or omitted the truth! Except it was a really fucking big piece of truth!” Chest heaving, hands shaking, all the works really.  _ Not now, please, not now _ . But the rational corner inside his head shrank and shrank within an endless sea of anger, outrage--grief. “Don’t you think Arthur, if you’re dating someone, if you’re going to  _ marry _ someone, you might find the time to let that person know you have a fucking title lying around?” Now he couldn’t stop the crying, he didn’t know how to, he didn’t want to. “That people should call you  _ Lord Greene _ instead of  _ hey, you over there _ ? Wouldn’t you say that’s a significant piece of information to share with your husband  _ before _ you died and let your spineless lawyer let you know through a fucking  _ letter _ ?” 

Arthur hugged him. What else could he do? He soothed and held Merlin in his arms, whispering sweet nothings, acting as if Merlin hadn’t married a complete stranger. What else could he say? It wasn’t working. It couldn’t work. Some things couldn’t be fixed; the past couldn’t be reckoned with, only accepted. So Merlin kissed Arthur. What else could he do after all? 

*

Everything made much more sense afterwards. Not that Arthur hadn’t fucked up. He  _ had _ . Big time. But, in the grand scheme of things, his mistake felt almost inconsequential. Or so Arthur told himself. 

“The definition of a whirlwind romance.” Whatever look Arthur gave him made Merlin chuckle. Him smiling with the stilled sight of tears across his cheeks and the scent of musk and sex around them could only be described as  _ absurd _ . But it had been a good chuckle. “I know, I don’t look the type of person that goes and does something like that. But, what can I say? I was charmed. I thought,  _ why not? _ Three months after meeting him, we married. Two months later, we were at the hospital for his first round of chemo. No wonder Gwaine’s friends hated me. I probably looked like the worst bad-luck charm ever. And I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew about his title, the  _ money _ too. They probably called me gold digger as well as toy boy behind my back.”

Everything had seemed clearer afterwards: Merlin’s stunted grief most of all. How could he behave like a widower when he had hardly been a husband to begin with? Things made sense; his boiling anger made sense; his choking sobs had made sense, too. The kissing before, during, and after didn’t. Merlin’s head had been resting on top of his chest as he had explained. His bare chest. He couldn’t think about Merlin without the feeling of his hair over his skin. The taste of his everything. The feel of his everything. Arthur had fucked up, done the one thing Morgana had told him not to do, the one thing he had promised himself not to do. And now he would have to pay the price for it. And so would Merlin.

If he didn’t think much about it, the sight of Merlin at the coffee shop could’ve been a scene from the past. Arthur’s mind playing games. Like it had all been a dream. But his nervousness, Merlin’s shifting glance, the shower he had had to take to wash off the smell of him from his skin the day before--all building up to burst the sweet, comfortable dream bubble. “Thanks for coming.” He had to be formal now. A suitable distance became mandatory. Merlin smiled, unsure, tired. Arthur could relate. “I think it’s important we talk about what happened.”

Merlin grimaced. “I know.” Their hands were close enough to touch. They didn’t. “I know what you’re going to say. And probably what I’m going to say. That it was a mistake. And it was. I was feeling vulnerable and you’ve always been so nice with me. I--I’m sorry.” No sting there. Being called a mistake didn’t hurt as much as he had imagined. The worst was to come still. “I don’t know how but--but maybe we can move on from this?”

_ Big breaths, Pendragon, big breaths _ . Time to be a big boy now. Cutthroat. “I can’t see you again, Merlin.”

“What?” The coffee shop had been Morgana’s idea.  _ Make it a public space _ .  _ Take solace on that _ . Merlin’s eyes still watered around the slow after-breakfast rush. “Why?”

_ Cutthroat, Pendragon, cutthroat _ . “Because it wasn’t a mistake for me. I wanted it. I want you, Merlin--and I can’t have you. Not now. What you’re going through is too big for this and I can’t be the friend you need. I tried but I wasn’t strong enough. I should’ve said no, stopped you after that first kiss. But I was selfish. I can’t be your friend after that; I wouldn’t know how to. I’m sorry.” 

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. Their hands touched. Arthur moved his away. He moved himself away. The coward’s way out. What would he give to go back in time? To return to that first day buying coffee? To that first day outside the hospital? All he owned would go into it, just for the sake of telling Merlin the absolute truth from the get-go:  _ I’m not a good person _ . “Arthur!” One last glance, he decided. One more for the memories. “You are my only friend here.” 

_ And what good that was for you in the end? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, kudos/comments=self-validation and love

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments = love


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